


Little Superstar

by test_kard_girl



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 07:30:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/test_kard_girl/pseuds/test_kard_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epic fluffy multi-part behemoth narrating the horror as would-be Broadway power-couple Rachel and Jesse Berry-St.James realise their daughter is completely tone-deaf. </p><p>Originally written for the Glee_fluff_meme, 'cos St.Berry being oblivious show parents and flailing all over the place turns out to be a weakness of mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Jesse hangs his coat up carefully on its peg in the closet, pulling the sweat-damp rehearsal clothes from his rucksack before nudging the bag inside as well and shutting the door on the rather messier-than-Rachel-would-like-it cubbyhole. He runs a tentative hand through his hair, grimacing as his fingers catch in clumps and tangles of hair-gel.

Maybe he should nab a spritz of Rachel's lacquer instead of his usual wax. Either way: a shower before bed is definitely required. 

He disposes of his sweatpants and tee in the washing machine and shuffles towards the bathroom on autopilot, smiling vaguely at the prospect of hot, steamy water soothing away the aches in every muscle of his body (and the hideous sweat clumps in his hair. God, maybe it's time to resurrect the sweatband). He pops the button on his jeans and pulls his shirt halfway up over his head in anticipation-- which maybe explains why he doesn’t see the crouching form of his wife pressed against the outside of their daughter's bedroom door before he almost face-plants into the carpet tripping over her. 

"Rachel? What are you--?"

"Shhh!" Rach hisses, pressing a vehement finger to her lips. Jesse does as he’s told-- as is usually safest with Rachel. 

He pulls his shirt back down over his stomach, mirroring Rach's position and pressing himself against the other side of Maria's door.

"What are you doing?" he asks, exceptionally quietly. 

Rachel meets his eyes with a traumatised expression. She places her palm gently against the wood.

"Just listen." she whispers back, voice uneven. 

Jesse controls his curiosity just long enough to feign aloofness, raising his eyebrows slightly; then he does as she asks, pressing his ear against the door.

 _Maria's first solo performance_? He ponders in anticipation. A pitch-perfect and unexpected rendition of  _Memory_  perhaps (a new touring production of ‘Cats’ had just arrived at the Ahmanson) underscored with a special melancholy by the sweet, childish voice of the talented but as-of-yet undeveloped vocalist?

He strains his ears. Or maybe just a simple song,  _Twinkle Twinkle_ , belted out with the innocence of someone still in the un-self-consciousness of baby-hood, every note clear and perfect and resonant in a way no kindergarten teacher has ever sang it. 

Slowly, the lyrics resolve in Jesse’s ears: " _…put ‘em together and what have you got? Bibbity bobbity boo!_ " 

But it's not the words that Rachel is making those big, saucer-like eyes at. 

" _Salicatoo-amamamam..._ "

It's the voice. God, it's that voice. 

Jesse brings his free hand up to his mouth, unable to help biting down on his thumb. He meets his wife's eyes, no longer caring about the stringy locks brushed messily across his forehead, or the pain in his body, or the relief of the shower. 

Maria's sweet, oblivious song continues in his left ear:

" _Cinderelly-cindrelly..._ " 

"She's tired." he hears himself whisper "She's had a cold for weeks, her sinuses are clearly chock-full of mucus."

Rachel gazes imploringly at him: "She had dairy after 7pm."

"That'll be it." Jesse agrees, nodding. "It's the dairy."

But his stomach is still sinking, as his daughter's lyrics putter off into half-known words and la la las. Rachel's normally full, pink mouth has vanished into a tight line.

"Maybe she's using the voice-changer?" Jesse suggests weakly. "The one that came with that Sesame Street Cookie Monster thing?"

Rachel shakes her head, her slack, pale face the vision of despair.

"She's awful." she murmurs flatly, eventually, clutching for Jesse's hand: "Maria Melanie Berry-StJames simply cannot hold a note." 

Behind the door, Maria burbles another happy, oblivious chorus as her exceptionally gifted and hard-working parents cling to each other and try to understand how on earth this could have happened.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Of course, it could just be that little Maria was a late developer. After all, she'd began walking long before she'd started stringing sentences together... maybe it was only natural she would develop a penchant for tap dancing before an ear for pitch changes. 

Clearly, the Berry-St.James household had been somewhat lopsided in their child-rearing responsibilities. So it was with gusto that Rachel and Jesse set about nurturing their daughter's inevitable-- but as of yet undiscovered-- passion for vocal performance.  
  
*  
  
" _Laaaa_. See? Did you hear that cookie? Did you hear daddy copy the sound the keyboard made?"

" _Waaa!!!_ " Maria shrieks back joyously, whipping around to fix her daddy with a perfect, tiny replica of Rachel's showface. Jesse can't help but grin back at her: how can someone so cute be so out of tune?

Jesse tries again, plonking his finger down once more on the middle C of the rainbow-coloured plastic keyboard Rachel's dads had bought Maria for her first birthday.

" _Laaa!_ " he trills again, making wide eyes at his daughter to try and keep her attention. " _Laaa!_  Do you see? It's the same note. Can you do that honey? Ra-Ra, can you copy the sound?"

" _Waaa_!" Maria tries again, and Jesse's pretty sure he hears some wine-glasses shatter in the kitchen.

" _Laaa_!"

" _Waaa_!"

"No no baby, the same as the keyboard: _laaaa_!"

" _WAAA!_ " Maria screams.

Ok. Clearly his daughter thinks she is a dinosaur. 

Jesse hugs Maria close, burying his nose in her adorably bouncy chestnut curls so she can't see the grimace in his expression. 

"Gosh honey, you're so loud." He tells her, trying to sound chipper. "I don't think we need waste any time working on your projection."

"Pwojecshin." Maria repeats eagerly, and Jesse takes a moment out of his angsting to ponder her college fund, before remembering smugly the combined earning power of two Broadway superstars. 

"Daddy sing!" Maria suggests after a second, hugging Jesse tight round his neck, then pulling away to look at him imploringly. "Daddy sing! Daddy sing!"

Jesse sticks his tongue out at her. Darn it, but he does love an audience. Even an audience of a tone-deaf three-year-old. 

"Ok care bear." He agrees, smiling at her "Daddy'll sing for a little while. But not for too long, because this is daddy's rest day, and if daddy isn't performing at the top of his musical game throughout rehearsals tomorrow, evil bitter director Mr Sukowitz-- who's clearly jealous of daddy's natural talent and sinfully handsome good looks-- may find some wholly unsuitable reason for daddy to be ejected from the top spot and relegated to the screaming pit of despair that is swing/ensemble." 

With big soulful eyes, Maria blinks up at him.

"OK." Jesse picks his daughter up and sets her down again in the crook of his crossed legs. "You know this one princess. You wanna sing with daddy?"

Gamely, Jesse plinks out  _Frère Jacques_  on the tiny plastic keys, singing along and pulling out every syllable of the lyrics to give a chance for the note to linger and Maria to copy it. It cheers him slightly that his daughter's French pronunciation is impeccable. Maria knows all the words, happily trilling her 'rrs' and swallowing her vowels. Bi-lingual at three years old: another Berry-StJames success story.

After a while, they swap places, and when Rachel comes home from her monthly milkshake date with Quinn, she finds her husband sitting in the middle of the floor with a frown pulling dark lines across his forehead as he does his best to keep up with the syncopated vocal warm-ups their hyperactive daughter is bashing out on her Plinky-Plonk piano. 

Every note Jesse sings, Maria echoes with a giddy shriek. 

Rachel sighs to herself and traipses into the kitchen to mix both of them a healthy dosage of warm honey and lemon. Honestly. Sometimes men just have no idea how to make a woman sing.  
  
 *****  
  
"You're being far too formal with her." Rachel explains.

Jesse just looks at her for a second. Then he takes a long swig of the soothing honey mixture, holding the mug up to his face in a way that doesn't at all manage to mask the massive roll of his eyes. 

Rachel crosses her arms, fixing her husband with that I-sympathise-with-your-lack-knowledge smile she knows still irritates the hell out of him.

"I mean, it's an understandable approach-- especially from someone with your impeccable classical training-- but true musical talent is a matter of passion rather than--"

"--Practice?" Jesse interrupts, raising an eyebrow at her "Rach, I'm not the one who had tap-toes on her onesies."

Despairingly, Rachel shakes her head. Jesse's was an irrelevant observation-- if she'd been able to vocalise to her dads at that age what kind of clothing she wanted, tap-toed onesies would've been high on the list. Instead of negating her argument, Jesse's remembering just proved that the Berry family was, and always had been, kind of psychic. 

"Maria needs to discover the joy of music  _inside her heart_  before she can discover it in a perfect High A." she continues with a little more vehemence, pouring the remainder of the mixture into a sippy cup for their tone-deaf toddler. "Just leave it to me sweetie. Maria Berry is about to discover the passionate princess within." 

"Berry- _St.James_." Jesse reminds her dryly, and it's Rachel's turn to roll her eyes: the double-barrel hadn't been her idea after all. Then, noticing the sulk pulling at the corner of Jesse's mouth, she leans across to give him a quick, half-apologetic kiss before the pair of them head back into the living room. 

"Fine." Jesse grumbles "The keyboard's too distracting for her anyway-- did you really have to stick gold stars over all the keys?"

"It's a visual reminder that every note she manages to hit is an achievement..."  
  
 *****  
  
"A middle G Jesse! A  _middle G_! I have it on good authority that I  _snore_  in middle G! I can quite literally hit that note  _in my sleep_!"

Rachel catches her breath, watching Jesse make a considering face. "It's actually closer to F." he informs her "But perhaps after a particularly strenuous night--"

Rachel whacks him hard across the shoulder; pushes her tiara further back on her head with the heel of her other hand. Honestly, is sex all men ever think about? 

"This is serious!" she hisses, hoping her eyes are desperate enough to counteract the effect of the full Princess Jasmine wedding day outfit she's currently sporting. 

As one, the two Berry-St.James' glance over at their little girl: Maria's still skipping happily around in her Tinkerbell costume, murmuring the lyrics as  _A Whole New World_  plays on in he background.

Rachel grips Jesse's arms:

"I don't know what else to do!" she laments, never before had an occurrence where Disney has failed her. "I've tried everything!  _Snow White_  for sweet and juvenile; the untamed majesty of  _Pocahontas_... I downloaded the Christina version of ' _Reflection_ ' in case those shuddering high notes were an over-ambitious attempt at vocal runs, but  _nothing_  is  _working_!"

Finally, the urgency of the situation seems to penetrate Jesse's unmoved demeanour. A stray curl falls across his forehead, as though a sign of his inward distress. He glances at his daughter, then back to Rachel's wide-eyed despair.

" _Beauty and the Beast_?" he suggests tightly.

Rachel bites her lip at the memory: "There was no 'Beauty' involved."

" _Hercules_?"

"White girl got no rhythm."

" _The Lion King_?"

"I tried  _'Can You Feel the Love Tonight_ _?_ '— She got on all fours and pretended to be a warthog."

Jesse looks stricken. 

Despite her own unhappiness, Rachel dislodges her fingernails from her husband's skin and instead strokes a soothing hand up and down his arm. She hates to be the bearer of bad (horrific, agonising,  _soul-destroying_ ) news: but she's always firmly believed that in all situations, truthfulness is the best policy.

"I think perhaps," she suggests carefully, shuffling closer to Jesse so Maria won't notice the despondency on her parents' faces "she needs professional tuition."

Jesse's eyes snap back to fix on hers. After a second, his expression rearranges itself into the same face he wore when she first explained to him her undoubted relation to Patti LuPone.

"Rach...  _We're_  professionals."  
  
 *****  
  
"When you were head-hunting performers to revitalise Vocal Adrenaline, how did you know who was going to have the guts to make it, and who... would require six years of intensive psycho-therapy to rehabilitate them back into non-competitive society?"

There's a second's thoughtful pause on the other end of the line, before Shelby Corcoran announces contentedly: "Dumb luck."

" _Shelby_." Jesse rolls his eyes at the voice of his former vocal coach. Probably not a wise move in the middle of afternoon traffic. 

There's a soft laugh in Jesse's ear "They didn't all make it, if you remember." But Jesse can almost hear her frowning, biting her lip as she tries to form a coherent answer for him. "You just know." she says eventually, a bit helplessly, and Jesse feels something like a slow puncture developing in his heart "The first time you see them, you know. There's a reason they call them 'stars' Jesse. Anyone can have ability, but true talent? It shines. Rachel's did, remember? Yours did."

Jesse leans his head back against the head-rest, frowning sulkily.

"But I was so much  _better_  after I joined Vocal Adrenaline. After having you coach me? Maybe Maria just needs some... better guidance."

"C'mon." Shelby scoffs "That doesn't sound like the Jesse St.James I know. Who could be better than you and Rachel?"

Jesse can feel a hand flail coming on and forces himself not to let go of the steering wheel.

"I don't know, Shelby. It's just... she doesn't seem to be responding to anything! She has no pitch awareness or breathing technique-- I mean, her projection certainly isn't lacking, but aside from that she just... she just can't follow a tune. At all." Jesse sighs heavily, taking advantage of a stoplight to close his eyes and squeeze an extra layer of quivering hopelessness into his voice: "...I don't know what to do..."

"Jesse." Shelby sounds torn between amusement and regret "I'm not coming to LA."

"I know that." Jesse assures her, as if it's ridiculous. Then he kicks the guilt-trip up a notch: "... Not even for your granddaughter?"

"Now stop that." Shelby snaps "Makes me feel ancient! Also, makes me feel like hanging up on you."

Despite himself, Jesse smiles at the return of her showchoir director voice.

"Don't, I'm just kidding..."

"Good. Remember, I taught you every manipulative little technique you know boy."

Jesse knew it was a long shot. He hadn't actually expected Shelby to jump at the chance to fly the width of the continent just to give one tuneless little girl singing lessons; even if that tuneless little girl happened to be her beloved granddaughter. But in lieu of his own parents, going to his mother-in-law (and one time overly-intimate yet admittedly buxom vocal coach) for advice was second nature to him now. She was always straight with him; a quality Jesse appreciated. Even when that straightness was kind of making all his hopes dissolve into an ugly puddle of desperation. 

"How's Bethy?" he asks, mostly to shake himself free from the mental funk he can feel creeping up on him.

"She's good." Shelby replies, sounding chipper: "Had to get braces on-- I told you that right?-- hasn't cracked a smile in weeks. Think she's specialising in interpretive dance till they come off again."

"Hasn't kept the boys away though I'll bet."

"No, I'm the one who keeps the boys away. Her window has bars now."

Jesse grins, turning into the Crestwood Hills parking lot: "And that boyfriend of yours?" 

"He's not a boyfriend." Shelby protests, sounding uncannily like her daughter "I have no time for boyfriends. He's a man who likes to let me borrow his car."

"For driving in?"

"And again, I have that feeling of wanting to hang up on you."

"Too late, I need to go anyway." Jesse grins, turning off the ignition and grabbing his jacket from the passenger seat "That's me at the preschool."

"Lucky boy. Okay. Well, it was good to hear from you." 

Shelby pauses and Jesse does too, his finger hovering over the button on his Bluetooth, waiting for her to finish: "And don't worry." she says eventually.

"About what?"

"Maria." Shelby intones, not fooled by his blasé-ness "How can she avoid having talent, with parents like you two? Besides-- if she's happy with who she is, do you really wanna go trying to change her?"

Jesse lets his hand fall back to his lap, frowning hard enough that Shelby can probably see it from Manhattan.

"We're not trying to change her..." he protests; but if he was in an audition right now, he probably wouldn't be getting a callback: "We just want her to..."

"Think about it." Shelby's voice is soft, in that way Jesse almost never hears from her: "You've got a happy, healthy little girl of your very own... You don't know how many people would give up a show-stopping singing voice for something like that."

There's a reason Jesse keeps calling Shelby Corcoran for advice. Pressing his lips together, he clicks his seatbelt buckle undone.

"...Thanks, Shelby."  
  
 *****  
  
Most of the other parents have trickled back out to their cars by the time Jesse jogs up to Rachel and Maria and the little gaggle of moms and toddlers they're (almost) a part of. He checks himself before he reaches them though; rushed and breathless isn't his best look.

"Hey beautiful." He smiles, and when Rachel whirls to meet him, dark hair fanning out behind her, he winks and lifts Maria out of her arms instead.

"Oh, sorry, I meant this beautiful. Hey care bear!" he rubs Maria's nose with his own, making the toddler giggle and plant a wet kiss on his cheek.

"Hey-o daddy!"

"Did you have fun today Ra-Ra?"

"Yeah!"

"Yeah? What were you doing today?"

"We made music today!! It was fun and loud and--"

"--Music huh?"

For the first time, Jesse turns to Rachel and notices the barely-concealed panic in her eyes. 

"Uh-huh, we did music and tamboo-rine and singing and..."

"Your Maria's quite the little starlet." Charlottle O'Callaghan interrupts, leaning in front of Rachel and smiling that sickly, over-whitened smile that is probably the reason she didn't get into Julliard. 

"Even when it wasn't her turn she kept  _la_ -ing away..." the blonde chuckles " _So_  adorable... I suppose she gets that from you guys, huh? A little star in the making."

"Guess so." Jesse replies easily, bouncing Maria in his arms as he takes a discreet step back and to his left to stand beside his wife again. By Charlotte's immediate petted lip, Jesse guesses she notices the slight falsity in the Berry-St.James' simultaneous show-smiles.

"Victor did very well too." Rachel interjects chirpily: "Until he got distracted chewing Carrie Foster's hair, of course. You know my ferrets used to do exactly the same thing?--  _So_  adorable."

If Jesse had ever been the kind of person to high-five, he would've high-fived Rachel right then.

Charlotte shoots them both a poisonous look. "Yes, well, we'd better be going, huh Vic? Say bye-bye to Maria."

"Bye Mia." says the pasty little boy huddled round Charlotte's ankles that until that point Jesse hadn't even noticed-- the kind of boy who grows up to play the triangle. 

"Bye Vic!" Maria waves gaily back. Jesse's inordinately proud of how she waits till the O'Callaghans have left the room before sticking her tongue out. 

"Hey mommy?" He says, nudging Rachel with his hip: "You get any gold stars on you?"

Rachel smiles back: she never goes anywhere without them.

When they're on their way back to the car-- Maria occupied plucking at her fluffy yellow cardigan to get the best view of her prize-- Jesse turns to Rachel and mutters:

"They were all  _singing_?"

Rachel gives him the saucer-eyes again, pressing a hand over her heart: 

"It was just a chorus number, thank goodness." she assures him, tickling her daughter's ear so she squirms in Jesse's arms "There wasn't much opportunity to identify individual voices, although my word, have you noticed how  _loud_  she is?" 

Jesse raises sardonic eyebrows at her.

"But Jesse." Rachel stops, pulling at his arm with insistent fingers: "It's worse than that."

Jesse wouldn't be surprised if an expression of genuine fear flickered across his features.

"Worse?" he echoes. 

Slowly, Rachel reaches down into Maria's little  _Hello Kitty_  backpack; draws out a folded sheet of A5. Wordlessly she passes it to Jesse.

Written across the top, in big rainbow-coloured letters are the words:

**_'TODDLERS GOT TALENT! Crestwood Hills Preschool, Friday April 17th, 11am'._ **

****


	3. Chapter 3

Rachel buries her nose further into her pillow, huffing in the soothing lavender she always adds at times of stress. She closes her eyes; tries to level her breathing, matching the rhythm with Jesse's; listens to her own heartbeat and tries to be calmed by it. 

No good. Her eyes snap open again, bleary and sore with lack of sleep, mocked by the sight of the alarm clock on the cabinet beside her:  _3.56am_.

She shifts, as quietly as she can manage, although she knows Jesse's only pretending to sleep as well. She feels him sigh heavily against her hair; run his toes gently along the back of her calf:

"Do you want to--?"

"--I don't wanna sing about it." Rachel cuts him off, mumbling into the edge of the duvet. She feels how his body tenses in panic. Like most men, he has about one response to stressful situations. Unlike most men, it isn't sex. 

Irritated by her husband's slightly condescending silence, Rachel flips over to face him, beginning again the conversation they've had at least five times since they got home.

"We can't simply  _not_  enter her-- It would be immediately suspicious! Especially considering it was our petition that led to the expansion of their arts stream in the first place!

Maria already has an expectant audience-- if she doesn't deliver the show-stopping debut anticipated, her professional reputation might be permanently disfigured!"

Jesse grimaces: "Damn YouTube--"

"-- _Exactly_! And in a city as competitive as LA? One humiliating video clip could mean the retraction of a college scholarship."

They stare at each other through the hazy darkness. They both know how invaluable their college scholarships had been, and the idea of never having the chance to perform in a city where it really meant something? To have been stuck at some tech college in Ohio? 

Despite the repetitiveness, Rachel can feel the tears beginning to sting behind her eyelids again. One of the curses of being able to cry on command is that she sometimes does it without meaning to.

"Hey..." Jesse reaches over, pulling Rachel closer, cradling her body protectively against his. Rachel gives a big, inelegant sniff. He's always been good for a sympathetic cuddle, has Jesse. 

"Well, maybe," he suggests "we enter her and then have to... 'unexpectedly' leave the state? Huh? Could one of your dads fake a stroke?"

Rachel screws up her forehead: "They do love the chance to exercise their acting abilities..."

"Or, perhaps, my parents come home for a week? We would  _have_  to visit, they haven't even  _met_  Maria yet."

For a moment Rachel considers. Then she remembers; pokes a finger into his hip:

"We can't-- It's only two weeks before your opening night." (They'd been very vocal about Jesse's lead debut; there were flyers pinned to every notice-board within ten blocks of their apartment) "Everyone knows you would never leave town during such an essential rehearsal period."

"Amazing how often a stellar reputation can work against you." Jesse muses mournfully.

"How about..." Rachel's forehead is scrunched up with thinking "we allow her to enter, but a few days beforehand we pull her out with a sick note? We could say acute Laryngitis? Or maybe something infectious would be better, so no-one will be tempted to visit..."

"How to explain to Maria though?" Jesse says, nestling his chin against the top of Rachel's head "I don't think she would take it well. She really wants to compete..."  
Rachel feels the corners of her mouth start to tug downwards again: "...She  _can't_ compete." She sulks. Then: "Ugh-- We're  _awful_  parents!" 

"No, we're not..." Jesse tries to sound dismissive, rubbing soothing circles into her back "We're just... protecting her from premature exposure to professional heartache."  
His reasoning is valid, Rachel supposes. Yet somehow, it isn't convincing. She closes her eyes, breathing through her nose to try and halt any burgeoning sobs. She feels her mouth tighten again as Jesse cards his fingers through her hair, smoothing it out across her shoulders. It's meant to be reassuring.

"...I just don't understand." she tells him in a whisper "She's a  _Berry_ \-- she should be swimming in extraneous talent."

Jesse snorts: "More than that: she's a Berry- _St.James_ \-- her talent should be large enough to warrant its own Livejournal community."

For long, long minutes they lie there-- stuck for words, and more than a little unnerved by the occurrence. 

Rachel tunes out everything except her husband's fingers curling in her hair; the ever-present rumble of traffic rushing past outside their window. The thing about LA: it's never quiet. Not in the way Lima was, where you could walk down the street at four o'clock in the morning and no-one would notice you except the cats, and possibly Jacob Ben-Israel, hiding in the bushes beside your driveway.

It seems such a long way to here from there. A long road. Here, Rachel still might not have the high-flying friends she imagined: but she has a bunch of really close ones, and a husband she loves, and a beautiful daughter. Lima was too small for Rachel, in the end. It might be harder for her star to shine here, in amongst so many others; but Lima suffocated it. 

Like her and Jesse were trying to suffocate Maria's?

"No." Rachel says suddenly, and feels Jesse's hand pause mid-stroke in surprise as he glances down at her. "No, you're right. Maria's a Berry-St.James." she says decisively: "If she wants to compete, she  _can_  compete-- against anyone! And  _win_  against anyone!" 

Rachel rubs the heel of her hand across her eyes and pulls out of Jesse's embrace, propping herself up on her elbow. 

"The answer's been staring us in the face this whole time." She explains excitedly: "It's a talent contest, correct? A good, old, non-genre-specific talent contest. There's no rule that says Maria's entry has to be singing." 

_Except me, except me I want her to sing, I want her to sing and sing with me, with us, and be wonderful._

"She could do anything!"

"She can dance." Jesse says, sitting up as well, catching onto her train of thought "She has exceptional coordination."

Rachel nods, a little wildly: "Yes!--" 

"--Although ballet or tap would be far too pedestrian at a pre-school talent show... we'd have to coach her in something more... unexpected."

Rachel thinks for a second, then holds up a finger of triumph: "Flamenco." she announces.

"Ok..." Rachel thinks Jesse's looking at her funny, although it could just be lack of sleep "But how about jazz?"

"Ballroom?" she tries again: "Always a crowd-pleaser."

"She'd need a partner..."

"Interpretive?"

"Or perhaps not dancing..." Jesse ponders, rushing ahead "How about drama?"

"She could perform scenes from classical literature; from Shakespeare! It would be spellbinding--"

"--She could read poetry, romantic poetry--"

"--In French!"

"--Yes, everything sounds far more accomplished in French..."

"Oui, tout retentit bien plus accompli en français."

Jesse grins at her, grabbing hold of her hand and squeezing tightly, his eyes once again sparkling with possibilities. 

They stare at each other, breathing hard with excitement. No: of course their suggestions aren't simply more and more elaborate attempts to obscure the fact their daughter (her of the impeccable musical lineage) can't hold a note to save her life. What a ridiculous suggestion. They're good parents. They have nothing but Maria's best in mind. 

Rachel watches Jesse physically wince as she tightens the grip of her fingernails in the back of his hand.

"Mime?" He suggests finally, weakly: "There's always mime..."

 *****  
  
Jesse isn't particularly proud of what he does next.

But it was something Rachel said--" _She's a Berry!_ "-- and she always says it, he always has to correct her, and now with Maria's unexpected tunelessness...

'Cos he doesn't really doubt it. He doesn't-- Maria's far too adorable to have been the product of anything but the most impeccable genetics. But still... Rachel has so many boy friends; and Jesse had been away so much that summer, and 'straightforward' had never really been a word that applied much to their relationship.

Of course, full-day rehearsals aren't exactly conducive to private investigation; but when evil, bitter director Mr Sukowitz (the name seems to have stuck) gives them all five for a Gatorade break, Jesse puts on his best don't-even-think-you're-important-enough-to-converse-with-me expression (very well rehearsed), digs his phone out of his bag and sprawls out on the step at the back of the stage-door.

He scrolls through his contacts, swigging his Gatorade and letting the breeze cool the sweat on his forehead. Gosh, but he has a lot of contacts. A number possibly only exceeded by his number of Facebook friends. 

He stops, and clicks on a name that, until today, was only in his phonebook to make some kind of obscure point about how mature and superior he was. 

Jesse stares at it for a minute or so; then-- whipping a small, neatly written list out of his pocket-- he presses 'call'.  
  
 *****  
  
Being a tree doesn't come naturally to Rachel.

She fully recognises the benefits of interpretive dance-- the exhilaration of becoming another thing; discovering the capabilities of your body out-with the rigours of choreography; simplifying the bond between mind and flesh until all that's left is music and instinct.

But honestly? She sucks at being a tree. 

Maria doesn't though. Maybe it's because she's still so young, a coupling of childish innocence and the pushy, self-possessed Berry genetics-- but she makes an excellent tree. She's so caught up in creating budding blossoms with her fingers, curling her arms as a storm buffets her branches, wriggling her nose to be rid of the sparrow perching on it's tip, that she doesn't even notice her mom's stopped joining in and is simply intoning the scenario with a beaming smile on her face as she re-ties her ballet pumps.  
Of course, the operative word in interpretive dance, is, well... dance. Which requires music. It's the part Rachel's afraid of-- but she steels herself and scrolls through her iPod until she finds the track she's looking for as Maria whirls, happily oblivious, around the room in her tutu and spotty leggings. 

It's an instrumental, a track from the  _Spirited Away_  soundtrack album. No lyrics. Absolutely no lyrics. 

"Ok, cookie," Rachel sits back on the floor, holding her arms out for Maria to toddle in to. "Mommy's gonna put some music on, and I want you to show me how to dance to it, ok? Dance however you like, but make it really,  _really_  beautiful..."

Maria gives her a glittering smile; another twirl.

"I'm bootiful mommy."

"Beautiful, yes you are baby." She kisses Maria lightly on the cheek, then urges her back to the centre of the floor; presses play on the iPod.

The melody fills the room: sinuous flutes, shivering bells, ominous drumbeats. Rachel watches her daughter take a moment, a breath to compose herself, fix a first position. Then the music takes off and so does Maria, sweeping around the living room with awe-inspiring grace never before seen in an under-average height three year old. 

But with the music comes the singing. The happy, joyous notes that Maria screeches along with the music in agonising harmony. 

Rachel puts a hand over her mouth. 

Maybe not dancing then.   
  
 *****  
  
“Finn?”

“Uh, hello?”

“This is Jesse St.James.”

“Um, yeah. I have caller id.”

“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry; I had the sneaking suspicion you may have deleted my number in a childish yet understandable act of rejection after I married the woman you were clearly still in love with.” 

There’s silence for a long moment.

“Finn?”

The line crackles with heaviness of the other man’s sigh:

“…Did you want something?”

Jesse's happy to get back to the point.

“Yes, actually, I’m glad you asked. There’s no particularly tactful way to put this Finn, but I was wondering: do you recollect sleeping with my wife at any point in the last four years?”

“… DUDE, WHAT THE HELL?”

“Oh don’t be alarmed, I’m not out for revenge, I’m merely looking for some information that may help shed light on some recent… developments. I did have a more specific timescale in mind: namely, any time between April and July 2016?”

“Dude, I haven’t… slept with Rachel! Not since… not since, like, high school! What the hell is this--?”

“—Are you quite positive of that? I notice you’ve attended many of Rachel’s after-show parties Finn, and I know alcohol has a way of impairing judgement, especially if the object of your affection is emotionally fragile after the longer-than-expected absence of her loving fiance who is occupied starring in his first touring off-Broadway production--”

“Jesse, I don’t know what you’re talking about! Seriously, what the fuck’s happened? Me and Rachel are just friends! Just friends. Especially after you got married! I would never…Jeez, my mom would have my balls if she found out I was up to that sort of shit!” 

He sounds so sincere. Finn’s special brand of dumbness is just too unique to fake, even by Finn himself.

Jesse takes a moment to assemble this information, frowning to himself (and then instantly un-frowning, appalled at his blasé attitude towards premature wrinkling).

“Jesse? Seriously, what is this?” Finn's voice comes again, quieter but still high-strung. Jesse, of course, has no intention of revealing his motivation to his one-time rival. 

“One more question Finn.” He says, interrupting the other before he can start protesting again. “Do you own a turkey baster?”

“...I don’t… I don’t really follow baseball..?”

Jesse breathes a sigh of relief. 

“Thankyou Finn. Your responses have been very useful. Um… Do you have Noah Puckerman’s number?” 

 *****  
  
So, yes: everything did sound far more romantic in French. But everything sounded far more exotic and kooky and Yiddish, and Rachel knew which she preferred.  
Also, she knew which she had more sheet music for. 

Not that she was giving Maria sheet music. She'd learned her lesson about that. But she'd sat up the night previously (she thinks to Jesse's secret relief, because he came home after rehearsal looking exhausted and more than a little twitchy) and studiously copied out the lyrics of a couple of songs that wouldn't take too much re-arranging to become decent poetic verses.

She felt a little guilty passing the words (written in bright eye-catching glittery pink) across to her daughter-- neither of them were at Temple as regularly as she would really like at the moment-- but Rachel consoled herself that Maria would make her own religious decisions when she was old enough to consider them properly. For now, well, they were just appreciating beautiful music. 

Or poetry.  _Poetry_. No music. 

Maria squints at the unfamiliar language in front of her (no, Rachel doesn't expect her to be able to read it; but, well: it never hurts to get in a bit of literacy training) then she glances enquiringly up at her mother. Rachel smiles at her:

"It's lovely words Ra-Ra, and I'm gonna teach you them." she explains, pointing at the paper "It's called poetry; it's amazing... you can do it at your talent show. You have an endearing speaking voice."

(She does too; God knows where that came from.)

Maria scrunches up her nose; brushes her hair away from her face with an elegant, slightly chubby hand. 

"Ta-ent show? My show?" she questions.

"Your show baby." Rachel agrees, pleased at her possessiveness. 

"I'm gonna sing at the show!" Maria beams, and bounces up and down a bit in excitement, her Yiddish song lyrics fluttering forgotten to the ground. 

"No, baby, you're-- you're not... How about we try some of this, huh?"

Jesse's right; it is far too hard to tell her.

Rachel scoops the paper off the floor and passes it back to Maria. Then she pulls her own copy into her lap:

"Ra-Ra?"

"…Mommy?"

If Rachel didn't know she was three, she'd say her daughter was being sullen.

"You wanna copy what mommy says?"

Maria nods smally, twisting her paper in her hands. Rachel frowns for a second; then she starts to read, doing her best not to sing the words that are so familiar to her:  
" _Ikh vil bay aykh a kashe fregen, zogt mir ver es ken/Mit velkhe tayere farmegen bentcht got alemen?..._ "

Maria catches on quickly. She repeats back what Rachel quotes, a couple of words at a time, and she doesn't seem to have trouble keeping them in order. Her pronunciation is very near perfect, and Rachel finds herself asking her to repeat lines just so she can bask a bit in how wonderful her child is. Although she hates to admit it, as a child even she had problems with Yiddish. Granddaddy and Granddad will be so proud.

It goes considerably better than the interpretive dance fiasco, and Rachel's taught Maria the whole first verse before she decides to stop for a munchie break (banana sandwiches, cut like stars with the dough cutters Puck brought last Hannukah when he and Kurt stopped over).

They sit at Maria's little red plastic play table, Maria layering bread and banana and reciting the poem under her breath with a beatific little smile on her face-- probably the same one Jesse says Rachel gets when she sings easy-listening. It's sweet and domestic enough that for a moment Rachel doesn't notice; she doesn't notice that she's humming along the original tune to Maria's poetry. 

Then Maria joins in.   
  
 *****  
  
"The fuck dude? You know the last time I banged someone with a vagina? 'Cos I fuckin' don't."

Jesse had forgotten how charming Noah Puckerman could be. 

"Well, I know you've always felt an affinity with Rachel because of your shared religious beliefs--"

"Yeah, we're both hot Jews." Puckerman agrees modestly "So what? Artie's a hot Jew, I don't go boning him. Truth be told I like me a bit of ethnic diversity. And I sure as hell never felt Rachel's 'affinity', or whatever you're calling it-- her underwear was freakin' vacuum-sealed in high school, man."

Jesse has the feeling it would be so much easier to hang up than try to continue this conversation. He thinks he can feel a cluster headache coming on; and Lauren's almost certainly calling him back for another shot at their duet.

Jesse girds himself, and makes his last enquiry with as much authority and dignity as he can manage:

"Then there's absolutely no chance that an accident may have occurred between the two of you sometime while I was away? Perhaps on my 'Breaking into Broadway' period? Around, um, four years and two months ago perhaps?"

"St.James, are you still talking? Look. Two words: Beth Fabray Corcoran."   
  
 *****  
  
Teaching Shakespeare is almost as successful as teaching Yiddish (Maria seems determined to turn  _Macbeth_  into a rock opera); their attempts at Flamenco leave a surreptitious dent in the kitchen wall, and mime... well, just: no. Isn't gonna happen. So-- with only two weeks to go-- Rachel sees no alternative but to set about imbuing her daughter with what those in the biz call 'Diversionary Tactics'. 

Rachel takes Maria's hand, pulling her up beside her and spinning both of them around to face the row of angle-poise desk lamps lined up on the second-top shelf of their book cabinet. She closes her eyes. Even when it's only pretend-- even though she should be used to it by now-- the heat of the spotlight on her skin still makes her heart all a-flutter.

She starts a little when she feels Maria's face pressing into the side of her knee:

"So shiny mommy..."

"It's ok sweetie. Here--"

Rachel picks up a pair of pink plastic star-shaped sunglasses, specially bought for the occasion. With an excitement that reminds Rachel of a certain Kurt Hummel in response to a personalised New Directions jeans jacket, Maria grabs the shades and pushes them onto her face, turning back to face the lights with new-found enthusiasm. 

"You'll become used to them in no time." Rachel assures the preening toddler "But at this age it's wise to take extra-care with your still developing retinas. Just remember--" She lowers her voice to a more serious tone: "Nobody wants a squinting star."

"Squinty stars."

"Are bad. Squinty stars are bad." Rachel makes a growly face.

"Bad..." Maria echoes; but she's mostly enamoured with the lights.

 _So much_  like her mother. 

"Ok, so. This is your very first lesson in what's called 'stage presence', baby. It's very important." Rachel announces, crouching down again to meet Maria's eyes.

"Singing with mommy?"

Rachel winces. "Not quite. See, we're going to start at the very beginning." she smiles sagely "As a friend of mine says: it's a very good place to start."

Maria doesn't seem to register the reference-- but that's ok. Education in classical musical theatre can come later, once Rachel's had time to sit down and prepare the relevant flashcards.

Maria lowers her sunglasses, peering curiously over the top at her mom's beaming face.

"I like singing mommy." she says very seriously "I wanna sing 'Cindrella'..."

"We will sing 'Cinderella'." Rachel assures her, pushing Maria's last agonising performance of the Disney classic to the back of her mind and leaving it there, abandoned, to be hacked to pieces in the night. "But right now we need to learn something even more important."

Maria frowns. On an older person it might have been incredulity. 

With well-practiced ease, Rachel tosses her hair back, letting the dark waves ripple beautifully across her shoulders.

"How to look fabulous under a spotlight."  
  
 *****  
  
"While in a warped way I kind of appreciate that you consider me dude enough to do the horizontal salsa with another dude's wife, you should know I'm totally 100% on board with my asian princess."

"That's on board the  _love train_!" 

Jesse hears Tina giggle in the background, and then some upsetting noises that sound like her and Artie making out.

Jesse rolls his eyes: "But how can I trust you?" he asks forcefully, loud enough to drown it out: "You and Tina have only been an item again for the last fourteen months."

Artie comes back to the phone, clearing his throat to return his voice to its usual register.

"Okay, um, just so we're clear: you're asking me to confirm whether or not your wife jumped me and forced me to have sex with her? 'Cos y’know, if that’s the case, I think maybe your marriage has developed some bigger problems."

Tina’s obviously still in range. Jesse practically hears her straddling her boyfriend:

"Mmm... looks like someone else is developing a bigger problem too..."

Jesse instantly jerks the phone away from his ear. Ok, he can't ever imagine Rachel being with Artie, as friendly as they are. And the boy has a point of course: his situation surely doesn't give him much opportunity for impromptu proactive ravishing.

As if in direct reaction to his thoughts, the wet, giggling noises of Artie and Tina on the phone become more pronounced. Jesse slaps his hand over the earpiece.

No. He certainly can't imagine Rachel being determined enough and angry enough to go through the rigmarole of figuring out the do's and dont's of paraplegic sex all on one drunken whim.

"Artie?"

"...Yeah?"

"Thankyou. My list of suspects is depleting by the minute."

"Sure thing. I'll let you know. It'll be...good...um..."

Jesse hangs up. Clearly, Artie's far too distracted to converse.   
  
 *****  
  
Jesse’s pen hovers over the next name on his list, unconsciously written with less vehemence than all the others:  _William Schuester_. 

A moment of uncertainty, then Jesse drags his pen through the letters. 

Surely not, he thinks. Rachel caused the glee tutor far too much psychological damage for him to consider her a viable post-divorce rebound. Besides: his hair is atrocious.   
  
 *****  
  
"Sometimes I think we own too many sequins..." Jesse muses, picking gingerly through the rainbow of glitter-filled boxes in front of him. Rachel winces as he finds some especially heinous holographic ones and holds them up in sardonic example:

"Do you really want her to look like a mirror-ball?"

Rachel tucks a stray strand of hair irately behind her ear.

"Perhaps if she blinds the audience with shiny they won't notice how her voice is making their eardrums bleed..." she mutters, feeling immediately guilty and exorcising it by squeezing out another painstaking line of glitter-glue onto Maria's already neon-pink tutu. 

Jesse puts the box down and after a moment (where Rachel watches the battle between being cocky and being comforting play across his features) he comes around behind her and kisses her gently on the side of her neck before starting to knead his fingers into her stressed-out shoulders.

Rachel lets her eyes fall shut: it feels like heaven.

"Mommy, mommy! Daddy! Look at me! Look at my shoes!! LOOK AT MY SHOES!!"

Rachel's eyes snap open again and she forces a smile that's probably more a horrifying grimace across her face:

"Oh, wow cookie, they're... lovely, aren't they lovely daddy?"

"Yeah, lovely baby girl." Jesse echoes, in a voice that doesn't sound quite like his: "Why'd you use so many feathers?"

Maria bends down to stroke her marabou-covered footwear. "They're so soft now, like bunnies!"

Rachel feels Jesse's fingertips tighten a little on her shoulders. "Bunnies? Don't you mean 'birdies' care bear? Y'know, because of the feathers?"

Maria gives him a withering look, then tilts her foot to look at her shoes again:

"Bunnies." she says decisively, then plonks herself back on the floor to begin bedazzling her socks. 

"She's going to look like an ostrich..." Rachel hisses dazedly, and Jesse instantly resumes his shoulder-rub: "She's going to _look_  and  _sing_  like an ostrich! Why did I think costumes were a good idea? 'Diversion tactics'?? No-one is going to be diverted from looking at the ostrich girl!!!"

"Hey, it'll be ok." Jesse tries to be soothing "We'll redo the shoes when she's sleeping. It'll be fine."

Rachel wishes she could believe him. She cocks her head and watches distractedly as Maria takes a break from her clothing customization to stick a couple of love-heart sequins to her cheek, humming happily to herself all the while. 

Surreptitiously, Rachel blocks her ear with her finger.

"Hairography." she whispers eventually "Do they make wigs for three-year-olds?"

Jesse leans his head momentarily against hers:

"I'll ask Kurt." he says, somewhat startlingly "I was meaning to call him anyway..."   
  
 *****  
  
"I didn't father your child, Jesse." 

"Um..."

"--Put it this way:" Kurt enunciates perfectly: "if I wasn't gay before hypothetically sleeping with Rachel Berry, I'd certainly be gay in the hypothetical aftermath."

And he hangs up.

Jesse takes the phone away from his ear; squints at the screen. That was probably the shortest phone-call he's ever made. 

Then he thinks back over Kurt's sentence.

"Berry- _St.James_." he sighs.   
  
 *****  
  
"So there's nothing wrong with her? Nothing at all?" Rachel asks again, just a little shrill.

Dr Kim shakes her head, smiling pleasantly. 

"Nothing at all. Maria's perfectly happy and healthy, aren't you little one?" 

Maria giggles at the finger tapped against her nose and reaches across to do the same back, only stopped by her mom's arm tightening around her waist. Obviously pleased at being given the all-clear, the toddler bursts into a bumbling chorus of ' _Get Happy_ ' and Rachel stares wildly at her for a moment before whipping her head back round to gaze desperately at her doctor:

"But there must be some--"

"--She had a cold, a few weeks back." Jesse interrupts, stopping his wife with a hand on her knee. "It hit her pretty hard; she couldn't talk..." 

Rachel catches his eye and her face instantly contorts into its most concerned expression:

"She was in bed for days." she adds, nodding sincerely.

"It could've been the flu." Jesse suggests "She had a temperature, didn't she Rach--?"

"-- 102, easy--"

"--influenza can have serious long-term affects in children, isn't that right--?"

"--sinus damage, eardrum rupture--"

"--don't you think a few days bed-rest could be the most effective prescription--?"

"--just to be on the safe side--"

"--EXCUSE ME."

The two Berry-St.James' mouths snap shut, their desperate improv cut brutally short by the normally lovely Dr Kim's steely rebuke. 

The doctor gets to her feet, hooking her stethoscope pointedly back around her neck. 

"Your daughter, as I said, is perfectly healthy. All signs of any 'flu' are long gone." Dr Kim looks like she's struggling not to use air-quotes "She'll need to come in for some booster shots in a month or two, but for now? She's free to go. As are you. If you don't mind, I have patients waiting."

And she holds the door open, revealing the waiting room full of sniffling babies and harassed mothers and miserable looking kids with chicken pox. 

After a moment's helpless blinking, Rachel and Jesse get stiffly to their feet. Maria slides off her mom's knee, taking her hand instead and toddling along beside her parents as they file out, still mumbling her cheerful little song: 

". _..Sun is shinin’, c’mon get happy, c'mon ev’rybody la la la..._ "

Back in the car, Rachel and Jesse glance despairingly at each other, then at their vocally-challenged daughter reflected in the rear-view mirror. 

That was their last shot. Their very last shot. 

The talent contest's tomorrow. 


	4. Chapter 4

The day dawns bright and sunny-- although since it's LA, that's not a huge surprise. Rachel would have preferred something cold and wet-- maybe a surprise blizzard-- but alas: the weather is being uncooperative and the show must go on. 

Maria's dancing-- it was decided last night, amongst temper tantrums and a hail of sequins. The toddler tried her best-- her adorable pouty face is agonisingly hard to say no to-- but her mom had had far more practice throwing diva-strops, and the littlest Berry didn't stand a chance. In compromise, her parents promised to let her put extra sparkle onto her outfit, and even glitter in her hair, and let her pick her own music, and they assured her over and over again that it was all going to be so much more fun this way... but in the end, no-one looked very convinced. 

"She's going to hate us forever." Rachel murmured, as they watched her stomp away to find her legwarmers. 

"She'll hate us till tomorrow evening." Jesse corrected, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. "Think how much more upset she would be if she got laughed off the stage."

Rachel nodded. But she couldn't help thinking that her daughter really wasn't the type to run away weeping.  
  
 *****  
   
"She all ready?" Jesse asks, leaning back to catch Rachel's eye as she picks her way over the rest of the audience to get back to her seat. Rachel notices their programme ripped into twelve perfect pieces in his lap. 

"Yes-- Well, as ready as she can be." she adds darkly, smoothing her skirt so she can sit down. Automatically their hands intertwine.

"Does she look like an ostrich?"

Rachel glowers at him.

"It's not funny."

"Sorry."

"And no-- now she looks more like a particularly fluffy peacock. I don't know if that's better."

Probably wisely, Jesse doesn't answer. 

The kindergarten hall isn't particularly big, and half of it is taken up with a big movable platform like McKinley used to have for pep assemblies, swathed in heavy curtains that may have once been vibrant purple and now looked depressingly lilac. The other half is filled with thirty or so mis-matched chairs that are currently occupied by thirty or so equally mis-matched parents.

(Aside from Rachel and Jesse of course; they always look outstandingly complementary together.)

"Isn't it adorable?" comes a familiar voice, and Charlotte O’Callaghan twists around from her seat in the row in front to gush at them. "It's so exciting-- their first show!"

"Isn't it." Jesse responds non-commitally, glancing over and noticing with alarm how much effort his wife is putting into gritting her teeth. 

"Vic's been practicing ever since they first announced it-- he's like,  _s_ o enthusiastic about everything, just  _everything_ , he's going to do so well at school, you can totally tell with children who's going to do well can't you, even when they're so small, if they're going to be amazing or just really  _awful_ , it's--"

"--What's Vic's act?" Jesse interrupts, forcing a politely enquiring look across his face. 

Charlotte grins, but makes secretive eyes at him and presses a finger to her unnaturally pink lips.   

"Oh well, that would be telling...Wouldn't want to let slip any ideas to the competition now would we--"

"-- He's got jump ropes." Rachel supplies, finally snapping, smiling sweetly as Charlotte's face falls: "He's going to jump over them. It will be an epic illustration of one boy's triumph over the force of gravity."

Jesse stares at his wife with something akin to wonder on his face. Charlotte stares at her with something akin to brain trauma. 

"I love you." Jesse says earnestly, and Rachel smiles weakly at him like they're clinging to the wreckage of the Titanic.

"Good morning ladies and gentlemen!" Miss Jenny announces suddenly from the front of the hall, silencing the squalling parents with a screech of feedback as she steps in front of the speakers. The entire audience cringes but Miss Jenny's smile never wavers: a true childcare professional.

"And welcome," she beams "to the fourth annual Crestwood Hills Preschool talent contest!!"  
  
 *****  
  
Rachel kind of hates Jesse for tearing their programme up. After sitting through her fourth garbled recitation of the First Amendment, Vic's jump-rope extravaganza, and one little boy who thought blowing bubbles into his milk was an achievement, she picks the pieces out of his lap and starts rearranging them again in her own, hoping to find an estimated finishing time.

She almost doesn't notice when's Maria's name's called, and it's only Jesse's sudden vice-grip on her hand and the expectant hush of the crowd around her that make her look up.

Maria toddles out into centre-stage, spine straight and head held high, glittery braids catching the afternoon sunlight. 

She stops; positions her feet carefully into her first position.

Rachel takes a deep breath. 

A neon-green marabou feather--dislodged from one of Maria's pumps-- tumbles across the stage and floats serenely down into the first row.  

"Well, she certainly has... presence." Jesse whispers, a valiant effort to break the tension. 

Rachel bites her lips hard together, sliding unconsciously down a little further into her chair. 

There is the longest moment. Then-- the music begins: a dramatic staccato of strings, expectant drums; an intro so very,  _very_  familiar…

And all the air rushes out of Rachel's lungs.

It's the WRONG music.

"Oh no oh no oh no..." she mutters desperately, suddenly sitting straight up, staring at her girl; staring at Miss Jenny, in charge of the sound system; staring at Jesse, who has never looked more horrified.

And before they can stop it, Maria's voice soars out into the audience: loud, powerful, passionate... and sharp enough to rip apart the ceiling tiles.

 _“Don’ tell me not to live, just sit and putter…_ ”

"Oh no." Rachel whimpers; buries her face in her hands. 

" _Life’s candy and the sun’s a bowl a’ butta.._."

Jesse clenches his teeth, physically wincing away from the sound. Oh god, that's his daughter up there: his daughter, mangling Streisand.

Maria struts across the stage; pirouetting perfectly so the glittering frills of her tutu flair around her; flashes a smile at her audience that is the epitome of show-business. 

" _Don't tell me not to fly, I simply got to, If someone takes a spill it's me and not you, who told you you're allowed to rain on my parade..._ "

Someone sniggers. 

Rachel's perfect ear for pitch hears it over the brass section and her head snaps up again, turning slowly as she searches for the source. She hears it again-- from another direction this time-- and when she turns to Jesse she can tell he hears it too.

"They're laughing at her." she mouths, despairingly. Jesse gazes back at her, lost for a reply. He's ashamed that for half a second the words ' _no wonder_ ' flash through his mind.

" _At least I didn't fake it, hat, sir, I guess I didn't make it…"_

Maria continues to glide across the stage, gesturing meaningfully at the crowd, pulling all the right expressions. It's bizarre: like a dubbing over of the most perfect performance. There's no way such an agonising voice can come from such an enchanting little girl.     

Jesse sets his jaw, making a decision, reaching once more for Rachel's hand. He squeezes it tightly. 

"It's perfect." He whispers. 

Rachel frowns at him, taken aback by his meanness. 

"It's perfect." He repeats, more emphatically. Then he turns back to the stage, settling comfortably into his chair, letting his expression fall into a familiar, accomplished, slightly smug smirk.

Rachel blinks at him. Then, she understands. It hurts: but not as much as the giggles of the parents around her hurts. The parents who are  _laughing_  at _her_  daughter. 

Rachel lifts her chin and lets a proud, confident smile push across her lips.   

Maria is oblivious to it all. She keeps dancing-- keeps singing-- as if she's in her bedroom at home and no-one else can hear her. She twirls and skips across the stage like she owns it, glancing every now and again at her audience to see if they share in her joy, but young enough that she doesn't understand the rigid lines of their faces; the hands clapped over mouths; the whispered comments.

Jesse forces himself to keep breathing, focusing on the graceful lines of his daughter's pas-de-basques, and trying to force her singing into ambient background noise. Certainly her beginners' ballet classes have paid off: look at how perfect her toe-points are, and how she doesn't lose balance for a second when she spins... And the whirling arms thing? Maybe Rachel really did try and teach her flamenco. 

Her costume isn't actually that horrendous. Well, ok. It is. But she's three-- she's allowed to be ridiculous. She bobbles her head, making the feather in her hairband dance and the glitter on her cheeks sparkle. She's so cute (not an original thought of course; hello, impeccable genetics). But like this? So cheerful and silly? she's adorable. 

Jesse bites his lip. She also has no idea how bad she sounds-- she's entirely tone-deaf; she doesn't realise she sounds like a cat caught in a garbage disposal. 

Maria seems to notice her daddy watching. For just a brief second, her smile widens even more, pushing against her cheeks, eyes shining. Jesse feels his own smile widening in reply. He recognises Maria's smile-- he got the same one the first time he stood in the wings and watched Rachel sing ' _Tonight_ ' to a packed house. A dream-coming-true smile. 

That's his daughter up there-- his and Rachel's-- her dream coming true. 

Rachel's eyes flick to her husband. Jesse likes to think he's a fabulous actor, but honestly? After all this time she's more than well-acquainted with his show-faces. 

And that easy sparkle in his eyes? That isn't one of them.

She looks back at Maria, trying to see what it is he's seeing to make him grin like that. But she can't focus. Maria's mangling the crescendo now, almost yelling the lyrics-- certainly not lacking passion but definitely lacking control. Some in the audience have actually started talking now, chattering away in whispers. Every now and again Rachel can feel their amused glances on the side of her face, but she refuses to turn around for them, keeping up the appearance of the proud mother.

She remembers singing with Shelby, that first time, way,  _way_  back in high school. She'd picked an incredibly inappropriate song for their first mother/daughter duet, but-- knowing how much it meant to her-- Shelby had gamely sung along anyway, giving it everything. It had been magical, and heart-wrenching; and the idea that Maria and her might never have that moment? 

Rachel curls her free hand into the hem of her skirt. 

It's unbearable. 

She blinks, clearing away sneaky, unexpected tears. She focuses instead on Maria's glittery hair, braided on either side of her cute little face with ribbon neatly tying the ends.   
Her cheeks are bright pink from exertion, and from the force of the smile on her face. Rachel doesn't think she's ever seen her look so enthusiastic, so... carelessly happy....  
Rachel's always had a problem being carelessly happy. It never seems to end well for her. Even now-- so much more comfortable in her own skin than she used to be-- she worries too much, and no amount of spa weekends or lavender-scented pillows or hypnotherapy sessions seem to help.

The only thing that always works-- always works-- is being on the stage. Being on the stage, in front of an audience, singing her heart out. Pouring everything she has into something else's lyrics, belting out her emotions; her soul bursting as her last note gives way to thunderous applause...

Maria will never get to feel that. She'll never stand in front of an adoring crowd, every one awestruck by the immensity of her talent, their applause validating the effort, the emotion of it all.

The sudden silence jolts Rachel out of her reverie. She refocuses her eyes. The song's ended. Maria stands centre-stage once more, little chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, feathers and glitter scattered lazily around her. Beaming ecstatically at her stunned audience, she tucks one foot neatly behind the other and does a perfect curtsey.

Without even thinking, Rachel leaps to her feet, Jesse just a second behind her, and they applaud Maria until their hands ache. They applaud and applaud and whistle until their little girl starts jumping up and down in excitement and takes another encore bow, and comes running out into the audience to be swept up in her mom's arms and covered in kisses by her daddy, and neither of them have ever, ever been more proud of her.   
  
 *****  
  
Everyone's a winner at Crestwood Hills, so she doesn't officially come in last. But by the time Miss Jenny hands out Maria's certificate, the crowd of cramped, twitchy parents are obviously bored of polite clapping and hardly bother at all. Rachel and Jesse make up for it. 

They pile back into the car, Maria shedding glitter all over the seats and chattering nineteen-to-the-dozen about the other contestants as she alternately holds her certificate up to the sunlight and clutches it to her chest like it's a Grammy and she can't believe she's won it. 

"Here cookie-- you did so well today you can have as many as you like." Rachel says giddily, digging in her purse and offering Maria her roll of sticky gold stars. Maria squeaks: "Thankyoooo!!" and instantly drops her certificate onto the seat beside her, the sparkly stickers so much more entrancing.

"Hey, Finn's been calling me." Rachel says, checking the screen on her Blackberry. "Four missed calls... How strange--"

"--I'm sure it's nothing important." Jesse says quickly, snatching her phone away and tucking it in the pocket in the car door. 

"Mommy!!" Maria calls, and Rachel twists round to find her daughter with gold stars decorating each cheek and a line of them all across the neckline of her tutu. And one each on the toes of her shoes. And one on the nose of her  _Hello Kitty_  backpack.

"Yeah baby?" Rachel beams at her "Wow, you look so pretty Ra-Ra..."

"I'm a star mommy." Maria explains, bouncing up and down in her seat. 

"A superstar." Jesse amends, catching his daughter's eye in the rear-view mirror. 

"A soopastar!"

Rachel kisses her fondly on the forehead, before turning back to fasten her seatbelt.

"Of course you are baby, you're a Berry-StJames. Our little superstar."

 


End file.
